Funny how, when death or disease may threaten, we may not run in fear of its face, instead, return to the solace of those very habits that offer comfort and leave to fate our own.
Yet faced with loss of sight, my armies suit up, bayonets like sewing needles glint to catch the power of the sun of will. For without vision, or fingers playing on a keyboard, my life is nothing, and all. And so we strip and let them probe and draw the very aching lifeblood as if survival writes itself in red. And when it does, will we once again take to it all as just a winless war?
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology